Levitan’s Autumn Came Alive in Plyos
Last autumn, I visited the small town of Plyos together with three sisters by heart, all studying in Russia. Before that trip, Plyos existed for me only as a name in art history books — a place closely connected with the Russian landscape painter Isaac Levitan. I did not expect that this short journey would become one of the most emotionally intense and memorable experiences of my student life.
The moment we arrived, I felt something inside me begin to soften. The air was cold and clear, the streets quiet, and the town seemed untouched by haste. After months of academic pressure, deadlines, and constant mental noise, Plyos felt like a gentle pause. It was as if the town welcomed us not with excitement, but with calm — offering space to breathe, to slow down, and to simply exist.
Autumn usually marks the beginning of the academic year, a season I associate with pressure, deadlines, and constant responsibility. As a final-year student, this feeling felt even heavier than before. Classes, future plans, and expectations often left little space to breathe.
This year, it was my three sisters by heart who gently encouraged me to step away for a moment. They reminded me that before rushing forward, it is sometimes necessary to pause. Our journey to see the golden autumn became not an escape from studying, but a quiet way of restoring strength — walking, talking, and sharing silence in a place where time seemed to slow down.
Plyos is a small town on the banks of the Volga River, far from the noise of large cities. We arrived early in the morning, when the air was cold. Autumn had already fully arrived: golden leaves covered the roads, the hills, and the wooden houses, creating a calm and poetic atmosphere.
As we walked through Plyos, I constantly felt as if I were moving inside a painting rather than a real town. The hills were covered with golden and amber leaves, and the Volga flowed quietly below, reflecting the pale autumn sky. Everything felt soft, muted, and carefully balanced, as if nature itself had slowed down its rhythm.
At one point, we climbed a hill overlooking the town. From there, Plyos unfolded quietly below us — a small, peaceful village resting gently in the valley. Wooden houses appeared scattered among golden trees, their roofs blending softly into the autumn landscape. Everything felt harmonious, as if the town had grown naturally from the land itself.
From above, the village lay quietly enclosed within the valley, as if protected by the surrounding hills, with the Volga flowing calmly below. Its surface reflected the pale autumn sky, moving with a quiet confidence that felt timeless. Standing there, I felt an overwhelming sense of stillness. It was a moment where nothing demanded attention, and nothing needed to be explained. I simply stood, taking in the view, allowing the scene to settle inside me.
Knowing that Isaac Levitan once lived and worked here made the experience deeply symbolic. His paintings had always represented Russian autumn to me — distant, poetic, almost untouchable. Yet in Plyos, that familiar image suddenly became tangible. The wind, the scent of fallen leaves, and the quiet footsteps along narrow paths transformed what I had known only from books into lived reality.
During our walk through Plyos, we visited the Isaac Levitan Memorial House-Museum, located in the very house where the artist once lived and worked. Unlike large museum complexes, this place felt intimate and deeply connected to its surroundings. The rooms preserved the atmosphere of everyday life, allowing visitors to step into the space where Levitan observed, reflected, and created.
The exhibition presented not only his artworks, but also his life story, creative journey, and personal connection to Plyos. Sketches, paintings, and archival materials revealed how closely Levitan’s artistic vision was tied to the town and its natural landscapes. Standing inside the house, it became clear that Plyos was not simply a location he visited, but a source of constant inspiration.
Standing in the house where Levitan once lived and worked, I began to understand his art in a more personal way. His landscapes are often described as quiet and melancholic, yet being in Plyos helped me realize that this melancholy is gentle rather than heavy. It reflects moments of pause, reflection, and emotional honesty. As a student facing the uncertainty of graduation and future choices, I found comfort in this feeling. Levitan’s art reminded me that vulnerability and stillness are not weaknesses, but necessary states for growth and understanding.
What struck me most was the quiet dialogue between the interior of the museum and the world outside its windows. The same hills, river, and autumn light that surrounded us during our walk appeared again in Levitan’s works, transformed into emotional landscapes. This experience helped me understand how deeply the artist’s inner world was shaped by the natural beauty of Plyos.
What made the trip truly meaningful was not only the place itself, but the people I shared it with. We were a group of Vietnamese students studying in different programs and years, united by similar experiences of living abroad. During the trip, we talked about our studies, future plans, and the difficulties of adapting to a new cultural environment.
Food in Plyos felt inseparable from the river itself. The town is known for its fish dishes, and almost every small café or local eatery seemed to carry the quiet presence of the Volga in its menu. We tried simple meals made with freshly prepared fish — nothing elaborate, yet deeply satisfying. The flavors were clean and gentle, allowing the natural taste of the fish to speak for itself. Eating there did not feel rushed. Meals unfolded slowly, accompanied by warm tea and unhurried conversations.
For me, this experience added another layer to the feeling of being healed by Plyos. After days filled with stress and constant movement, sitting down to eat simple fish dishes by the river felt like an act of care. In that moment, nourishment was not only physical, but emotional — a quiet reminder that simplicity can be enough.
What stayed with me just as strongly as the landscape were the people of Plyos. They moved slowly, without haste, as if time followed a different rhythm here. Elderly locals sat quietly on benches near wooden houses, watching the river and the passing seasons rather than checking their phones. Their presence felt steady and reassuring, like a natural extension of the town itself.
They were remarkably warm and welcoming, approaching us not with curiosity, but with genuine kindness. An elderly woman stopped to ask if we were studying in Russia or simply traveling. She wanted to know where we came from and whether we liked the town. Her questions were simple, yet filled with care, making us feel less like strangers and more like guests.
Later, when we stopped at a small café to buy coffee, the owner surprised us by offering homemade apple jam pastries as a gift. The taste was simple and comforting, and we happily accepted. It was a small gesture, but it captured the spirit of the town perfectly — unpretentious, generous, and sincere.
I noticed how closely the people of Plyos seemed connected to their surroundings. Their gestures were unhurried, their voices soft, as if shaped by the river and the hills around them. In a world where life often feels rushed and fragmented, this calm way of being left a strong impression on me.
What made the trip truly meaningful was not only the place itself, but the people I shared it with. We were a group of Vietnamese students studying in different programs and years, united by similar experiences of living abroad. During the trip, we talked about our studies, future plans, and the difficulties of adapting to a new cultural environment. Moments like this reminded me that my education at HSE is shaped not only by lectures, but by lived experience.
Traveling together created a different kind of communication than we usually have at the university. Without the pressure of classes or schedules, conversations became deeper and more personal. Some students shared how studying in Russia had changed their worldview; others spoke about homesickness and the balance between ambition and emotional well-being.
Plyos left a far deeper impression on me than I had expected. Perhaps it was because our time there was so limited that every moment felt especially precious. We stayed only briefly, yet the town managed to linger in my thoughts long after we had left.
As we prepared to return, I felt a quiet sense of regret — not sadness, but the gentle disappointment of leaving a place too soon. There were still paths left unexplored, views left unseen, and silences left unshared. Plyos did not feel like a destination that can be fully understood in one visit. It felt like a place that asks to be returned to.
Even now, as I sit down to write these lines, I still feel a quiet emotional warmth when I think of Plyos. The golden autumn, the calm river, the kindness of the people, and the presence of Levitan’s legacy remain vivid in my memory.
This sense of incompleteness became part of its charm. I know that one day, I would like to come back — not necessarily to see more, but to stay longer, to observe more slowly, and to let the town reveal itself again, in its own quiet time.
All photos were taken in Plyos by the author.
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Hoang Van Nguyen
